


The Devil On Trial

by johnsarmylady



Series: The Devil and Sherlock Holmes [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 21:53:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnsarmylady/pseuds/johnsarmylady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will John be imprisoned for Moran's death? Not if Sherlock and his brother have any say in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Devil On Trial

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely artwork for this tale supplied by willietheplaidjacket

Sitting on the hard bunk, his back against the bare painted wall and his hands loosely resting on his drawn up knees, John sat perfectly still, thinking.

It had been a perfect winter’s afternoon, it had felt like at last they had put Moriarty and his machinations behind them, and then Greg had walked in – looking shell-shocked, pained.

_“I’m sorry John; I’m here to arrest you for the murder of Sebastian Moran.”_

_John blinked hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously.  Flicking a glance at Sherlock he saw shock and horror, mingled with disbelief._

_The air in seemed to grow thick with expectancy, and as the two police officers shuffled their feet uncomfortably, Sherlock suddenly found his voice._

_“No!  Lestrade you cannot seriously be doing this.  You were here, for crying out loud! It would definitely have been me, possibly you too, lying dead on the carpet if John hadn’t tackled him.”_

_“Look, I’m only…”_

_“Don’t say it.  Don’t you dare say you’re just doing your job.”_

_“He’s not.” Sally’s voice was firm. “He asked to be allowed to bring John in, as his friend.”_

_“Detective Superintendent Greenaway is in charge of the case,” Lestrade added. “I’m really sorry John we have to take you to Paddington Green.  If we’re not there soon they’ll come and get you themselves.”_

_Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John held up his hand to silence him._

_“Don’t Sherlock, it’s not Greg’s fault.  I’ll go quietly,” his lips twitched at the cliché. “Get on to your brother and see what he knows about this.”_

_He stepped towards the police officers, deliberately not touching his lover, letting his eyes say everything a touch could not, then turning to Lestrade he held out his hands, waiting to be handcuffed.”_

_“Christ John, no, that won’t be necessary.” He looked embarrassed, fidgeting and shuffling about._

_“We’d better go Sir.” Sally broke the heavy silence, gently taking hold of John’s arm and leading him down the stairs._

_Watching from the window, Sherlock saw Donovan open the rear door for John, before walking round to the driving seat. His last sight of his angel was his face, smiling a little sadly up at him from the back of the car._

DI Greenaway, a sour faced northerner, had been brisk and business like as he took John into custody.  He had been dismissive of the courtesy accorded the doctor, and immediately after reading him his rights hustled him away to this cell, where he was sitting now, waiting to be interviewed.

xXx

Mycroft walked into the flat a mere twenty minutes after John had been taken, pausing in the living room doorway and taking in the sight of his brother staring unseeing into the glow of the dying fire.

“Moran, it seems, had influential relatives.” He spoke calmly, crossing to stand next to his brother. “His uncle is Daineal Moran, he practically owns Westmeath in Eire, and it would appear he has paid a large amount of money to bring a private prosecution against John.”

“I thought you had dealt with this Mycroft.” Sherlock snarled, but there was a distinct lack of fire behind the words. “This shouldn’t be happening.”

“I know, little brother, and I have my people working on it now.” Taking hold of Sherlock’s arm, Mycroft silently urged him to come and sit down.  Pointedly, the younger man sat in John’s chair, leaving his brother to sit in the leather armchair.

“Fortunately, John has asked for legal representation, so I’ve had a solicitor sent to the station to be with him during the interview process, and we are arranging for one of our top barristers to prepare the case for his defence.  They are pushing for an early court hearing, so I want him to have the best available support.”

“Can’t you stop this…. this farce?”

“I’m doing the best I can, Sherlock, but these things take time.  I’d had no prior warning that this was going to happen,” he paused, the expression on his face promising retribution for the minion that had let this piece of information slip through unnoticed. “But I promise you, we will clear John of all charges.”

A noise in the doorway made them both look up.  Greg had returned, alone and looking a little confused.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here – I’ve not been told the details of the case, but I want to help as much as I can.” He said without preamble.  “What do you need?”

“John.”

“That’s not possible tonight, Sherlock.” Mycroft said quietly, indicating that the Detective Inspector should take a seat.

Greg shook his head.

“Tea?  I could murder...” he clamped his jaw shut on his inappropriate comment, cursing himself for his insensitivity.

“Help yourself.” Sherlock waved vaguely in the direction of the kitchen, and settled back into his chair to stare at his brother. “Get him out of there, Mycroft.”

xXx

This was the first time that John had met with Russell Rhys-Williams, the defence barrister that Mycroft had engaged on his behalf.  The blond doctor was not sure how many strings the British Government had pulled to get this, but here he was, sitting with the man who was to defend him in the preliminary hearing.

“Dr Watson,” sitting at the table in the interview room at Paddington Green police station, Rhys-Williams leant forward, keeping his voice low. “We will be presenting no evidence today, to do so would be to hand the advantage to the prosecution.”

John nodded, his eyes keenly watching the man opposite him.

“We will put in a plea of Not Guilty, and we will ask for bail.” The barrister continued.

“I have very little money, Mr Rhys-Williams.”

The serious looking young man smiled suddenly.

“Please, call me Russell – the rest is such a mouthful.  And don’t worry, Mr Holmes has promised to stand surety for you.”

“Sherlock?”

“No, Mr Mycroft Holmes.”

For a moment John felt the ground shift beneath his feet, he was aware that the bail was likely to be set high. Mycroft’s tame solicitor had told him the circumstances of the charges, when they met before his formal interview, so he knew they had a fight on their hands.

“Dr Watson? Are you alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry, that was a little bit unexpected.”

With an understanding nod, the barrister continued “You’ll be on your way soon.  You will be asked to confirm your name and particulars, but that is all I want you to say.  Offer no comments, answer no questions no matter who asks.”

Both men rose and shook hands.

“See you this afternoon in court.” Rhys-Williams gathered his notes and knocked on the door to be let out. 

John watched him walk away, then sat slowly back in his chair to wait.

xXx

The argument in the Magistrates Court in Marylebone was fierce.  The prosecution stated, on behalf of the Moran family, that they felt the Colonel’s good name and reputation had been besmirched, and that the ex-army Captain, with his documented history of mental illness had persuaded his flatmate and a serving police officer to lie for him.

The defence countered that Captain Watson had been injured trying to save the lives of young soldiers in the hell that is Afghanistan, while the Colonel Moran had been discharged in dubious circumstances.

All the while this was happening John sat quietly, staring straight ahead. He desperately wanted to see Sherlock, but his flatmate had been excluded from the hearing because he was a witness and potential accessory to the fact.  Even at this distance he could feel the younger man’s agitation, and he longed to just hold him, soothe him.

Up in the public gallery, a slight movement caught his eye, and he turned his head to see a pretty brunette looking down at him.  Anthea, Mycroft’s Girl Friday, smiled and gave him the briefest of nods, and quite inexplicably John felt comforted.

The argument had turned now to the question of bail, and the prosecution had been vocal in their condemnation of the suggestion that John should be released back into the community, but this was where Rhys-Williams pressed home his advantage.

“Captain Watson has been a pillar of the community, since being invalided home from Afghanistan he has worked tirelessly with both New Scotland Yard and the British Government in order to keep the streets of London safe.” The barrister kept his voice even, almost matter of fact. “We are willing to compromise, and agree to an electronic tag and curfew as part of the bail conditions.”

There were hushed murmurs in the gallery, and on the bench the 3 Magistrates discussed their decision.  After a tense few moments John was asked to stand.

“Captain Watson, because of your previous good character we are willing to set bail under certain conditions.  You will wear an electronic tag, and be restricted to travelling within a five mile radius of your residence. A curfew will be put in place, from 7pm until 8am every day.” The presiding Magistrate looked sternly at the man in the dock. “Do you agree to abide by these conditions?”

John glanced at his barrister, who gave him a brief nod.

“Yes, Your Worship.”

“Thank you.  Then bail shall be set at fifty thousand pounds.”

The prosecution barrister smirked.  John paled, and glanced up to see Anthea still smiling at him while tapping frantically on her Blackberry.  Within seconds it seemed she had her answer, and with a grin and a nod she made her way out of the gallery.

xXx

 Hunched at the kitchen table, Sherlock stared through the microscope lens at the slide he had just recently put in, but his focus was out. 

Mycroft had threatened to lock him in the flat with a minder to keep him there if he hadn’t promised not to show up at the court, but in truth it hadn’t taken much to persuade him that to do so might be detrimental to John’s case.

He had stopped looking expectantly at his phone the minute he realised John’s mobile was still where he had left it on the coffee table, and although he had boiled the kettle at least half a dozen times, he had yet to actually make a cup of tea.

Sherlock was so wrapped up in his misery, that he almost missed the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs. Raising his head he held his breath, willing his heart to stop pounding in his ears as he listened.  He knew that step, weary as it was, and he was out of his chair and opening the front door before another second could pass.

“Ugh! Put me down, daft head. You’ll break my ribs!” John chuckled from within the bear hug that Sherlock had wrapped him in. Despite his levity, the smaller man could feel the shudders that through the taller man’s frame as he tried desperately to hold his emotions together.

Freeing his arms, John pulled him closer, pulling his head down onto his shoulder and whispering in his ear.

“Shh. It’s alright now, I’m here.” His lips gently nuzzled at the pale delicate shell, and he rubbed his head against Sherlock’s, much like a cat would, knowing the action would make the other man smile.

“I thought they’d deny you bail.”

John stepped back, his eyes hungrily taking in everything about the man in front of him.

“You really should learn to trust your brother; he’s doing his best to put this right.”

A loud growling sound broke the slightly strained atmosphere,  and John grinned.

“Sorry – police grub isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.  And I’ll bet you haven’t eaten since we finished that case, have you?”

“Mrs Hudson made me eat some toast this morning.”

“And that’s it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Okay, food first, then I really need a shower, and a decent bed.” His grin became positively wicked. “And after last night, I’m going to need… assistance.”

xXx

Generally if he woke in the early hours, Sherlock would wrap himself tighter around the man lying beside him, and let himself drift in a haze of periodic tables, chemical compound databases and scientific equations, but this morning was different. John’s side of the bed was cold, and some of the clean clothes he had put out the night before were missing from where he had draped them over the back of the chair.  Softly slipping out of bed, he pulled on his blue robe and padded down the hall to the living room.

John stood at the window, looking up towards the sky. Standing in the reflected light from the street below, Sherlock drank in the sight of his bare torso, compact and well-muscled, gleaming as if it had been oiled. And standing as he was, barefoot in just his jeans, the younger man thought that all he really needed was his wings and he would be the epitome of an angel.

A small smile crossed the angel’s face, and as if reading the other’s mind the strong, blue wings stretched out from his shoulders.  Walking across to stand next to him, Sherlock felt no resistance as he seemingly walked through the silken feathers.

“Why blue?”

“Because you like this shade of midnight blue, it reminds you of my eyes.  The first thing you noticed about me was the colour of my eyes, right before you noticed the tan.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“How I’m about to disappoint you.”

Sherlock looked down with a frown, but John’s attention was still on a sky that was hidden by the harsh lights of the town.

“You want me to manipulate the jury, play with their senses so that they find me not guilty.” He turned his head away. “You were dreaming of how easy it would be to do that.”

“And it would, wouldn’t it?”

“It would. And it would make me as bad as Moriarty. The only difference is the jury wouldn’t know they were being manipulated, wouldn’t be fearful for the safely of their loved ones. Do you think that would make it better? Make it right?”

“No.” Sherlock hooked his finger under John’s chin and turned his face up for a brief kiss. “But I can dream, can’t I?”

“Your time would be better spent praying that your brother can get this sorted.  I’m worried that they’ll try to pull some dirty tricks.” He shook his head, pushing away the thoughts. “Tea?”

They crossed together to the kitchen, John to make the drinks, Sherlock to stand in the doorway. A companionable silence settled over them, and once the tea had been made they gravitated back to the couch, wrapping around each other and drinking in silence, each lost in thought.

Hours later, when Mycroft and his legal team walked through the door they were still there, wrapped in each other’s arms, soundly asleep.

Moving quietly, he ushered the team into the kitchen, sliding the door shut, and they sat round the table while Anthea cleared away the microscope and made breakfast with the supplies she had brought with her.

It wasn’t long before John joined them, now suitably dressed in shirt and jumper, yawning and apologising for not being awake to greet them.

“It was a rough night” he said by way of explanation, sliding into a chair next to Mycroft. “Sherlock’s just getting dressed.”

“You did get my message?  That we would meet here this morning to discuss the case?” Frowning Mycroft looked from John to Anthea and back.

“Yeah, just… Sorry, it’s just that it seems strange not having to actually go to the legal team, but to have them roll up in your flat and make breakfast.”

“I’m not the legal team.” Anthea smiled as she whisked eggs in a bowl.

“No, you’re the chief kidnapper.” He grinned back at her.  “I hope they teach cooking in kidnapper school.”

“Oh yes, right between shooting practice and knife throwing.”

Still frowning, Mycroft stared at the blond doctor, who arched an eyebrow in response and said nothing.

Dishing up scrambled eggs on toast for everyone else, Anthea then sat down with coffee, toast and her Blackberry and prepared to work.

Throughout the morning they discussed the defence strategy, and the evidence that the prosecution had submitted for the case.  Somewhat in his element, Sherlock read thoroughly all the papers that had been put forward, and pointed out to the barrister where there were holes in the story, and by the time they had finished it was well into the afternoon.

“Do we have a date for the trial?” John asked quietly as the team started to pack away their notes and paperwork. All eyes turned to Anthea.

“Three weeks today.  They have rushed this through at our request – we don’t want this hanging over you longer than is necessary.”

“Will that be enough time?”

“Ample time. “Rhys-Williams assured him, shaking his hand and leaving with his assistant and the solicitor.  Anthea too, left the flat leaving John and the Holmes brothers alone.

“I’m sorry John, this should have been picked up and dealt with before it could get to this.”

“Not your fault Mycroft. And I owe you for the trust you placed in my innocence.”

“Trust?” Mycroft and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

“Yeah. Fifty grand’s worth of trust.” His dark blue eyes dared Mycroft to respond with his usual cuttingly smart remarks. “Well don’t worry – I won’t let you down.”

xXx

It had been a long three weeks, but now, on the fourth day of John’s trial, it was finally his time to speak.

The prosecution had called many witnesses, family, friends and former colleagues and associates of Sebastian Moran, many of whom had been either discredited entirely or their testimony had been put in doubt by Rhys-Williams’ skilful cross questioning.

When their turn came, John’s barrister started by calling a primed and rehearsed Sherlock, who for once understood that smart-arse comments would do more harm than good.  Even the prosecutions cross examining couldn’t get him to lose focus, much to their disgust.

Lestrade followed, an old hand at court procedure, but generally on the other side.  Nevertheless, he remained cool and calm, his testimony solid and unshakeable.  Once he was finished, the Judge directed that they break for lunch.

John was a little surprised, as it wasn’t quite mid-day, and it wouldn’t take long for them to question him, but when he looked to his barrister and frowned, Rhys-Williams waggled his eyebrows and winked – and John knew at once that they had a joker in the wings, waiting to be played.

After a tasteless sandwich lunch, a cup of dishwater tea and a chance to visit the bathroom and freshen up, John was keen to get into the witness stand, so he was surprised when his barrister called for a Mrs Evadne Hughes.  There was much whispering and shaking of heads in the prosecution camp, but the witness was sworn in, and Mr Rhys-Williams walked forward, smiling his most charming smile.

“Mrs Hughes,” he said, looking at her benignly. “Thank you for agreeing to testify today. I have only one question for you.  What is your connection to the deceased, Sebastian Moran?”

The elderly lady looked up at the Judge as she answered.

“He was my son’s lover.  He came to live at our house for the month leading up to…” she stumbled to a halt, bringing her handkerchief to her lips, then dabbing at her eyes.

The Judge directed the Clerk of the Court to procure a glass of water for the lady, and a chair so that she might sit to continue giving evidence. Once she had gathered her wits the defence barrister encouraged her to continue.

“You said, Mrs Hughes that Colonel Moran lived at your house.”

“Yes, my son Keith, he was a Second Lieutenant in the Colonel’s regiment, 1st Bangalore Pioneers, and served with him in Afghanistan.  They came home suddenly, said their regiment disbanded as part of the cuts to the Armed Forces, and Keith informed me that they were together, begged me to let him stay.” She smiled sadly. “I could never deny my Keith anything he wanted.”

 “You say they ‘said’ the regiment was disbanded – what happened to make you question that?”

“After…after the Colonel was killed, I contacted the Ministry of Defense pensions department to advise them, and when I asked to speak to the department that dealt with the disbanded regiment, I was informed that the regiment was still very much an active regiment.”

“One last question if I may, Mrs Hughes?  Can you tell me where your son is now?”

A hush fell over the courtroom, as if everyone in it held their breath in anticipation.

“My son…. is serving a 15 year prison sentence for owning and using an illegal firearm and conspiring with Colonel Sebastian Moran to murder Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

There was uproar in the gallery, as press and public remembered the famous case that finished only a month earlier, and above the noise Mr Rhys-Williams, defence barrister, moved for the case to be dismissed.

xXx

Two hours later, amid the flash and bustle of the press pack in the steps of the Old Bailey, John and Sherlock walked out, flanked by John’s barrister and his solicitor and they stood silent and unsmiling as the legal team handled questions and statements, spoke to the BBC news reporters, answered the questions from ITN.  And all the time the two flatmates stood impassive, just waiting for the chance to leave.

When the media circus finally died down, and they rushed away to write their reports and record their television news, Mycroft invited the whole team, including Lestrade, his brother and John to join him for dinner at Porter’s restaurant in Covent Garden.

Tugging at his formal shirt collar, John grimaced.

“Thanks Mycroft, can I get changed out of this though?”

Mycroft looked at his watch and nodded.

“The table is booked for 7.30. Well meet there at 7 for pre-dinner drinks?”

With nods of agreement all round, Sherlock and John headed off to find a taxi home.

xXx

 

By 7.45 Mycroft was getting concerned.  He had anticipated his brother wouldn’t want to join him and their guests for a drink, but he knew John’s natural good manners would have brought them to the restaurant shortly before the appointed time for dinner.

As he reached for his phone it started ringing, and he looked to see his brother’s name flashing on the caller I.D.

“Sherlock…”

“Mr Holmes. I’m in a cab outside Porters Restaurant.  I was told to ring you from this mobile and tell you I have a package for you.” The voice was very young and sounded frightened.

Mycroft leapt up from the table and dashed outside, Lestrade hot on his heels. Wrenching the cab door open he dragged the spotty teenage boy out of the vehicle.

“What package?” he snarled.

“Mycroft….let him be.” Lestrade stepped between the British Government and the terrified boy. “Alright son, just take your time and tell us what happened.”

“Some bloke, he give me these phones and this letter, told me to ring Mr Holmes – the number on the iPhone – when the cab got to the restaurant, and give him the message.  Told me he’d be watchin’ to make sure I did it.”

Lestrade asked a few more questions, but the boy didn’t really take any notice of the man who sent the message.  Letting him go, he advised Mycroft to get in off the street before trying to read the letter.

Back at their table, an uneasy silence fell over the guests as Mycroft carefully opened the letter and read the words on the single sheet inside.

‘Mr Holmes.  We have your brother and Doctor Watson.  By the time you read this they will be far from your protection.  They may have escaped Moran, and prison, but they cannot escape me.  Within 24 hours, they will both be dead.’


End file.
